Snowball
by Punctuator
Summary: Before the mission and before the film's release: a casual group training exercise sees the crew trying their collective hand at softball. Featuring cussing, innuendo, bad sports writing, questionable gamesmanship, and beer. Batter up!


**SNOWBALL**

The only one who of them who seemed completely relaxed was Capa. The eight of them were in a van on a gray and precipitating afternoon, and unless Kaneda very much missed his guess, their resident physicist was calmly counting the snowflakes whisking against the window near his head, which was encased in a knit cap that looked as though something round and black and mangy had simply crawled onto his scalp and died. Kaneda himself was outwardly calm; inwardly he was consciously following orders, which is to say he was feeling mildly guilty pangs of resentment. A simple fact: technical training was easier than psychological training. Today's was an exercise in team-building: the psychology department had made the request of the _Icarus'_ crew and her captain, and after a day, Capa had made the winning suggestion-- or the least absolutely ridiculous one: a softball game against a team of physicists from a local university. So here they were in a borrowed van, with Cassidy-- or Cassie, as she insisted-- of course-- at the wheel, and Kaneda, watching his crew, said to himself: "It promises to be a very long mission."

Next to him, Corazon just as quietly countered: "Wait until we're in space."

They were both watching Mace and Harvey. Mace at the moment was watching Cassie-- or the back of Cassie's head. "'Recreational bonding,'" he said. He caught her eye in the rearview screen and winked. "Got some ideas of my own about that."

"Harvey," Cassie said, "I'm driving. Would you hit him for me, please?"

"Sure, Cass."

A moment later--

"_Shit,_ man-- Ouch--!"

Trey, who as navigator claimed a perpetual right to call shotgun, looked out over the passenger-side dashboard at the pocked and icy road ahead. "Are we there yet?"

-- and the van rolled on.

* * *

A white field. Dirt paths forming a diamond, the dark straight trails dusting with snow. A high chain-link fence at the back, a powdery smooth expanse beyond. Harvey looked out at the ballfield, stamped his feet, and blew warm breath into his cupped hands. "Who are we playing again?"

Kaneda stretched his shoulders within the bulky confines of his black parka. "The Mendel Hall physics team. That is correct, isn't it, Dr. Capa?"

From beneath his hideous cap, Capa nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Well, they're late," said Mace. He was wearing old jeans and layers of faded t-shirts and sweatshirts and a red knit cap, and he and the cold seemed to be keeping a respectful distance from one another. "Figures. Bunch of eggheads, and they can't tell time." He knocked Capa playfully on his jacketed shoulder. Capa nearly managed not to stagger. "No offense, man."

"None taken, Mr. Mace."

Corazon looked at Capa suspiciously. "_We're_ here at the right time, aren't we?"

"You're saying _I_ can't tell time?" Capa countered, very quietly.

Cassie glanced from Corazon to Capa. "I think there are things we'd all rather be doing--"

"I'd rather be sitting in a live volcano, for one," said Trey, whose shivering had already upgraded itself to a broader general shuddering. "Would it help us freeze to death less quickly if we moved?"

"Laps," Kaneda announced. "Mr. Mace--"

"C'mon, guys." Mace jogged out to the diamond, Harvey tagging close behind. The rest of the crew followed. "Move it, Brainiac!" he shouted back to Capa. Capa, running, glared from beneath his tragedy of a hat.

As they set out for home base, Corazon asked Trey in a cloud of breath: "Is there room in that volcano for two?"

* * *

Unfortunately, the physics team showed up-- and not a graceful-forfeiture four to six hours late. A handful of laps later, the _Icarus_ crew had moved on to batting and fielding practice. In snow deeper than anticipated in the field beyond second base, Harvey was digging for a bright orange softball. Capa handed an old wooden bat to Trey, who rotated it slowly in his hands and looked puzzled. Mace, a second orange softball in his hand, called from the mound: "Get it together, batter-man!"

Cassie, stretching to the side, straightened and came over. "What is it, Trey?"

"What side do you hit with?"

"You're right-handed, aren't you? That side."

"That's not what I meant. What side of the _bat_ do you hit with?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"No."

"No batter no batter no batter--" Mace chanted.

Cassie bellowed toward the mound: "Shut up, Mace!" Trey jolted a step backward. He looked at her with a blend of respect and muted terror when she returned her attention to him. "Any side's good--"

"Hit the damn ball already!" Corazon shouted from the tundra that was right field.

"Hold it like this-- here and here--" Cassie positioned Trey's hands on the bat. "Elbow up. Watch the ball. And if you line one into Mace's nuts I'll give you ten bucks, okay?"

"Okay."

At the chain-link backing fence, Capa and Kaneda watched a windowless gray van roll into the snowy parking lot. On the side of the van was painted the image of a softball with a death's-head face shattering an atom. The van itself was a grand old Chrysler bearing collector's plates.

"Must be them," said Capa.

"Either that, or Control has sent a death squad to put us out of our misery."

Capa counted the scattered electrons on the side of the van. "That's a carbon atom."

"You sound relieved, Dr. Capa."

"I'd be more concerned if it were hydrogen, sir." He half-tried a smile. Kaneda frowned politely at him. "Just a-- just a joke--"

"Of course, Dr. Capa." The van's side doors were opening; people were getting out. Kaneda turned toward the field. "Look sharp, _Icarus_! They're here!"

* * *

They were tall. And broad-shouldered. And long-legged and deep-chested and perfect. The men on the team were even worse. Their feet seemed to float over the snow without sinking in. To see the Mendel Hall Atom-Smashers warm up was to watch a ballet of cheetah running and whistling bats and balls shooting like missiles through the air.

Corazon eyed the strapping 'Smashers fellows manning the field. "I didn't know physicists could look like that." She shot a glance at Capa. "Is it too late to trade up?"

Capa tried to squelch a wince. "Is it the hat?"

"Are you really asking?" Searle asked back.

"The hat's fine." Cassie edged closer to Capa, lightly bumped shoulders with him. "The rest is, too," she added. She was away before he could react, heading for the Team Icarus bench. Kaneda and the captain of the Atom-Smashers were tossing a coin as Mace looked on.

"Come on, people!" Mace called, turning toward the half-frozen _Icarites_. "We're fielding."

* * *

A quick sorting of positions. Capa and Searle, the fastest two, took the field: the best ones for running down balls and relaying 'em back. Kaneda and Mace were infield-- they'd both played ball in college; Mace was playing shortstop, while Kaneda took first base. Cassie, who'd played in high school, was at second. Harvey, the human wall, was catching. And Corazon, in their warmups, had proved to have a surprisingly sharp pitching arm. Which left Trey--

"You're on third, man," said Mace. "Get on over there."

Asked Trey: "Why can't Capa play third?"

"We don't want Capa on a base. These guys are gonna be heavy sliders. He gets hit-- BOOM: he's dead."

"But it's okay if _I_ get hit."

"C'mon, Trey, he's the science guy."

"So he's the science guy and I'm expendable."

"I never said that."

"I just read the maps, right? I just say, 'Take a left at the asteroid belt, Cassie.' That's it, isn't it?"

"Aww, Trey, no, man. C'mon. Third base."

"Why not second base?"

"'Cause Cassie's playing second base. Not that we wouldn't like to see Cassie get to third base--"

Cassie en route to second nearly put a middle finger up Mace's nose.

Mace grinned. "See. That's what I'm talking about."

"I'm still within earshot, Mace," Cassie called over her shoulder.

"C'mon, man." Mace put his arm around Trey's shoulders and pointed him at third. "Third base. It's a very good base."

"Pardon me, gentlemen--" Kaneda came over. "I think what Mr. Mace is trying to say is, with luck, we should stop them before they reach third; for, if they reach third, they are home already. Is that roughly it, Mr. Mace?"

"Yes, sir, that's about it. Well put, sir."

"Okay." Trey punched the palm of his glove. "I'll do it."

He trotted toward third, kicking up snow. Kaneda watched him go. "How do you rate our chances, Mr. Mace?"

"About one step short of 'doomed.'"

"Thank you, Mr. Mace." Turning toward his base, Kaneda tapped Mace on the shoulder with his mitted hand. "As always, I appreciate your candor."

* * *

Having exhausted themselves running the bases, the Atom-Smashers decided to give Team Icarus a chance at bat. It wasn't quite the "mercy rule"-- they'd run out of steam just short of ten runs, actually, with the help of Mace and Kaneda and the flying duo in the field, who-- thank God-- could catch that stupid orange ball as well as run after it. Now the 'Smashers fielders were enjoying a chilly rest while their pitcher sliced through the _Icarus_ batting lineup with a pitch that might have sent a straight-line wind crying back to the Dakotas. To everyone's surprise-- his own included-- Searle had put bat to ball, and the ball had put itself to a gap between second and third, and now Searle was on first, watching helplessly while Harvey was shut down at the plate.

Mace reached under his cap and scratched his buzzed hair. "Well, hell, I was wrong,"

"About what?" asked Trey, shivering next to him behind the bench. It was too cold to sit.

"No, wait--" said Cassie. "I want to bask in this for a second."

"Bask in what?" Mace scowled and gestured out at the field. "We're getting creamed."

"Mm mm," said Corazon. "Not that. You said you were wrong about something. I'll bask in that too, if you don't mind."

Trey looked perplexed. "I still want to know--"

"They're _geeks_, man," Mace said. "How the hell can they play like this?"

"It's not a question of how well they play, Mr. Mace," Kaneda said quietly, "but of how poorly _we_ do."

"Brainiac didn't say anything about them being semi-pro."

"Calm down, Mr. Mace. Since we cannot match their skill, we will need to exploit their weaknesses."

Mace thought for a moment. Then his face brightened. "Play dirty, you mean."

"You did not hear me say that."

Mace winked at Harvey, who, having been dealt the _Icarites'_ third out, was coming back to the bench. "Didn't hear a thing, did you?"

* * *

Having heard nothing and being-- in fact-- quite innocent, Harvey from his catcher's squat asked the back of the 'Smasher Amazon at bat just as the ball left Corazon's hand: "Wanna go out sometime?"

She checked up; the umpire-- a player on loan from a downtrodden Mendel humanities team-- said, "Strike--!"; she-- the Amazon-- scowled over her shoulder at Harvey. "What?"

Harvey tossed the ball back to Corazon. He winked at the Amazon. "Thought maybe we could, y'know, hook up."

She looked back at the pitching mound. "No. Shut up."

"C'mon, baby--" Just before the next pitch, the ball barely pre-flight-- "--we're the same species. Nearly."

"NO."

The ball sailing their way. A vicious swing. A miss. Harvey straightened again, took the orange globe from his mitt, and nonchalantly threw it at Corazon.

He dropped back to a squat behind his designated amazon. "Holy-- oh, man, what a view. If the rest looks this good, I'd love to--"

She swung on him. The bat swung with her. The softball smacked into Harvey's glove.

"Strike three!" barked the umpire.

But the Amazon kept swinging.

* * *

Team Icarus' catcher sat on Team Icarus' icy bench. Searle held his hand before Harvey's stunned eyes: "C'mon, buddy: how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three. Jeez--" Harvey rubbed his jaw.

"At least she didn't hit you with the bat," Corazon said.

"Like that coulda been worse--"

Mace patted his shoulder. "Come on, man, you'll be fine. It was a head shot."

"Thanks," said Harvey.

* * *

Mace. Up. He'd been studying the Smashers' pitcher's style, his release, the spin and speed of his throws. And, having studied, the chief mechanic of the _Icarus II_ knew exactly how-- and, more importantly, where-- to hit the ball.

A most powerful foul. The ball sailed backward, to the side, beyond the backing fence. It spent a short eternity in the snowy air before, being more than slightly denser than the flakes sharing its flight-space, coming to rest with a hearty thud on the roof of the 'Smashers' death's-head van. A collective wince rippled through those in the field.

"Oh, man, sorry," said Mace. "That's a collectible, isn't it? Your ride?"

"Don't worry about it," growled the catcher behind him.

"Thanks," said Mace. Another ball shot his way from the mound. He swung: a satisfying, cracking _thud_ as wood met leather. The ball soared over the backing fence like an ICBM sponsored by the Citrus Growers of America. Mace watched. The _Icarites_ watched. The Atom-Smashers leaned in horrified anticipatory sympathy toward their van. And the softball hit the windshield with a sound like the more vocal parts of a duck crossed with those of a string bass.

Pitch three. Very simply, everyone was watching the Chrysler. No one was watching right field. Mace decided to break for home-- and made it. Atom-Smashers: 8. Team Icarus: 1.

* * *

But then: revenge.

Corazon, her arm undaunted by the cold, struck out the first two 'Smashers batters. The third was their pitcher. He smacked a shot over Mace's head into Capa's territory and ran. He capped first and made for second as Capa, running, whipped the ball to Cassie-- and Cassie, turning, met an onrush of sliding 'Smasher. She made the tag even as she lost contact with the ground. She was knocked clean off her feet.

"You're out--!" Mace snapped, coming over.

The Smashers' pitcher got up. He dusted dirt and snow off his pants and smiled at Mace. "No argument here, man."

He trotted for the 'Smashers' bench. Mace helped Cassie up. She pushed clear of him. "I'm fine."

Capa passed them as he left the outfield. He pulled his hat from his head and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

* * *

And thus: capless Capa at the bat.

Behind him, Mace looked toward the pitcher for the Atom-Smashers and muttered: "Man, I'd like to deck that guy."

"Shut up, Mace," Cassie said. "He didn't hit me that hard. I slipped."

Mace watched the 'Smashers' pitcher shake out his shoulders. "Look at him," he said quietly. "Look at that asshole. He's smirking."

First pitch. Capa held his swing. He might have been looking at the pitcher.

"Ball one," said the umpire.

Continued Mace, nearly muttering: "Gets to go back to his lab and tell all his science pals, 'I knocked their pilot on her can.' Big man, knockin' down our Cassie--"

Pitch two. A transformation. Capa swung as though he were throwing his body at the ball. The swing whipped his torso around at an impossible angle, at amazing speed. He missed, of course-- the ball landed with a soft nonchalant smack in the catcher's mitt-- but for a moment the rest of the world seemed very still.

Searle matched Mace's tone: "Guys like that, they love to brag--"

Pitch three. Another bullwhip swing. Capa grunted. His feet nearly slipped out from under him on the snowy dirt. His expression was focused, his eyes very cold. The ball went unhit. But the smirk on the 'Smashers' pitcher's face held just that much less certainty--

"Might it not be easier if the bat swung him?" Trey whispered.

"Shush," said Corazon.

Mace leaned a shade closer to the batting box. "'Thought she was so smart. Pilot-girl. Man, I showed her--'"

Pitch four--

-- and Capa connected. A miniature thunder-clap in the snowy dull air, and the ball rocketed like a bullet at the pitcher's head. He threw himself backward, only barely out of the way, and landed on his rump in an outrush of snow. The ball shot onward, past second base. Capa dropped the bat and ran like a greased gazelle for first. In the time it took to write the last sentence, he was at second. By that time, the 'Smashers had wrangled the ball, and he held up-- but they were looking at him as though he had jumped an energy level in an atomic configuration.

Harvey, picking up the bat, said, more prosaically, "Holy crap."

"Knock him home, Harv," said Mace.

* * *

A knocking. A homecoming. Capa rounded third when Harvey was only halfway to first-- "_Damn,_ that's fast--!" breathed Mace, watching Capa's flying self, those effortlessly wheeling feet--

"Come on, Capa!" shouted Cassie.

A special treat, maybe. A thrice-a-year thing, if his crewmates had been keeping an accurate tally. Capa heard the shout, and he smiled-- a wide, wild smile--

-- and he hit a patch of ice, there in the lane, and his feet went out from under him. Perhaps he'd squandered his ounce of happiness for the year elsewhere. He went sprawling. The orange softball sailed from the outer reaches of the field toward home plate.

"Get up--!" Voices. _Icarus'_. Not just Cassie's. "Capa, get up--!"

He was up, of course. He'd nearly rolled directly back to his feet-- only a bit of rising needed to make the motion complete-- but the frozen ground had knocked out his wind, and he had to re-find his stride, and the orange ball was nearly in the catcher's hands--

But now another ball was in the air. This one was smaller, and it was white. Everyone who wasn't watching Capa was watching the orange ball, so later accounts of the game would differ. As it was, the white ball caught the Atom-Smashers' catcher square in the side of the head and exploded there into a shower of white cold powder, and as Capa re-found his stride, and used it, and crossed home base, the orange ball tipped off the edge of the catcher's mitt and fell in the snow at his feet.

"Safe--!" barked the umpire.

All the voices but one. As Mace and Cassie and Trey and Corazon and Searle met Capa with cheers and back-pats, Kaneda dusted snow off his hands. The catcher, a little stunned, shook snow from his head. Then he scrambled; he picked up the ball just as-- no, make that just after-- Harvey thundered across the plate.

The catcher turned toward Kaneda. Kaneda smiled politely at his frown.

"Hey--" the catcher said.

* * *

After the game ended, and end it did, in snowy chaos and a flurry of white missiles not unlike the one that had hit the Atom-Smashers' catcher in the head-- and which struck, in no small number, the 'Smashers' collectible Chrysler van-- the crew of the _Icarus II_ imade their way to a place of refreshment. Searle suggested going for ice cream-- "Y'know-- just to warm up"-- but beer seemed a nobler alternative. Pitchers of brew and plates of nachos and bowls of peanuts, and his crew talking and joshing and laughing, and Kaneda found himself re-assessing his opinion of psychological training.

"That was nearly better than winning," Cassie said.

Searle had a swallow of beer. "I'm calling it a draw. I mean, we won the snowball fight."

To which Corazon and Mace and Harvey responded with a "Whoof--! Yes!"

"Do we have to butt heads now?" Trey asked.

"Drink your beer, Mr. Trey," Kaneda said.

But there was no beer for Cassie. She caught Capa looking at her Coke and smiled wryly. "I'm the driver, aren't I?"

Kaneda asked: "What were you thinking when you were swinging like that, Dr. Capa?"

Searle smirked into his glass. "Think it's less of a 'what' and more of a 'who.'"

"'Whom', actually." Trey had discovered his beer. He wiped foam from his upper lip. "'Of whom were you...,' if you want to be--"

Cassie tagged him not ungently with an elbow. "We don't."

"Okay."

Capa flicked the slightest of glances their way. "Actually," he said, "I was thinking how much I appreciate it when Mr. Mace calls me 'Brainiac.'"

Mace reached for one of the pitchers. He grinned. "Beats 'Crapa,' doesn't it?"

Capa took a deep swallow of beer and nodded amiably. "It does."

* * *

Cassie dropped off the others and returned the van. She was a stickler for such things, for the proper handling of equipment and vehicles. Trey offered to accompany her to the campus garage and back to the dorms, but she didn't mind walking alone. He was welcoming a hangover as well; she thought it best he get himself and his clouding head home and to aspirin and water and bed.

She got in just after midnight. On the table in the kitchen of her dorm stood a bottle of beer. Beneath the bottle lay a note.

She shifted the amber bottle, read: _One for the road. Goodnight, Cassie_.

She didn't read the name at the bottom. She folded the note and put it in her pocket and opened the beer and drank it from the bottle, leaning against the kitchen counter. She smiled at the smile she saw in her mind. And she thought how beautiful he was when he ran.

**THE END**


End file.
